


Sherlock and the Purple Apron

by Infinatesky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Poor Sherlock, Retail, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock works retail, Smoking, Teenagers, Teenlock, bus rides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-02-01 01:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21306809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinatesky/pseuds/Infinatesky
Summary: In a world where Sherlock's family fortune disappeared with the death of his parents, Sherlock finds himself dependent on his retail salary. What does a great mind do when reduced to folding clothes and working the cash register?-I work in retail. It can get quite boring, which has many times led me to trying to occupy my brain in other ways while working. I began to wonder what our favourite consulting detective might do if put in the same situation.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Sherlock and the Purple Apron

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little one shot I wrote as a breather between working on my longer, more complicated things. 
> 
> Completely self indulgent and deliciously cliche. I hope you enjoy.

Twenty minutes on the bus. One thousand and two hundred seconds. Approximately the same amount of time that it would take to run two miles, three if he was in a mood. 

Twenty minutes of this every day. One hundred minutes by the end of the week, two hundred if you counted the ride back as well, (which of course you should—it was just as mundane). So, two hundred hours per week that Sherlock was forced to sit on public transit. A complete waste of his abilities—someone only half as smart as he was could have solved many of the world’s problems in that amount of time. Sherlock loathed being locked, Wi-Fi less and unoccupied, on the same damned bus. 

Surrounded by the same damned people, too. He had had them all figured out within minutes of laying eyes on them, and ever since was hopelessly bored without even his deductions to entertain him. 

The lady with the dry hair whose husband cheated on her every time he ‘went to the gym’. The old man who owned three little dogs and who ate the same thing for dinner every single day. The man and the woman who had recently suffered a rather messy breakup and who now spent the bus ride glowering at each other from either end. Boring. Too easy. Sherlock threw his head back against the glass in desperation. In two more stops, he would be done. Another twenty minutes hopelessly wasted. Time was money, and he was burning up fifties by the second. 

Something new—a boy he hadn’t seen before—waltzed into the stopped bus. He was still getting over a nastily broken tibia, and his coat was too long but meticulously cleaned. He smiled at the bus driver as he paid his fare, but faltered when he turned to walk farther onto the bus. Most of the seats were full, and he couldn’t decide between standing—not comfortable, what with the leg in that condition—or sitting down beside a stranger. So he was shy, this boy, or not used to this level of interaction with the general public. Private schooled? No—both his parents worked and didn’t have the funds to hire a tutor. Sherlock pressed his lips together absentmindedly, running his eyes up and down the intriguing newcomer. He was about Sherlock’s age. His dirty blond hair was in need of a trimming, but styled up to hide some of the shagginess. His hands were clammy and constantly moving; he stuck a few short fingers into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sweet. It was popped into his mouth before the bus started moving. 

Sherlock considered, pursed his lips, and swiftly pulled his jacket onto his lap, clearing the seat beside him. The boy ‘s attention was drawn by the movement, and Sherlock caught his gaze easily. He didn’t make any effort to show politeness or welcoming on his face, but he did clear it of the judging scowl that naturally resided there.

The boy smiled gratefully, a similar expression to the one he’d given the bus driver, and slumped into the seat beside Sherlock. 

“Thanks for that, mate.” Said the boy breathily. “It means a lot. Actually, my leg—”

“Was recently broken, probably in a sporting accident. Probably rugby, but possibly football. You have been sitting out the games as a consequence, and although you enjoyed the vacation, you miss the activity. Your parents don’t like that you’ve taken to sitting around the house lately, so they talked you into going out today, but being out alone and without a real plan makes you anxious. And it may make you feel better in the moment, but you really should lay off the sweets as a self soother.” At this point Sherlock had signaled the bus to stop at the next stop and was collecting his belongings back together. “Or wait until you can play sports again, at least. Your figure will thank you.” 

The boy had wrapped an arm protectively around his middle, and had a bewildered expression, but the words that came out of his mouth were the last thing Sherlock had expected to hear. 

“That was amazing”

“...That’s not what people normally say.” Sherlock’s voice was less sure than it had been a moment before. 

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss of,” Sherlock said, and they both chuckled. 

“How could you have possibly known all that, though. I mean—you must have looked me up, or talked to one of my friends…”

“Oh, really, I would love to tell you how I deduced it. All from looking at you, clear as day. But this is my stop. Good day.” Sherlock stood to his full height and sauntered off the bus. He didn’t spare so much as a glance backwards. No one had to know how desperately he hoped the boy would be on the bus again. 

He pulled his heavy coat on over his shoulders and let himself be swept up into the faceless stream of pedestrians meandering down the grey sidewalk, surrounded by repeating brick buildings and the smell of petrol. If the twenty minute bus ride in was loathsome, it was really nothing to be compared to the infuriating, nearly humiliating way that he would spend the next eight and a half hours of his life: working retail.

Growing up rich does something to a person; it gives them a sense of security and safety, and the notion that the maids and cooks and fancy black cars are a thing of complete normality. That the relaxing nights spent reading in front of the fire and the lavish meals around their immaculate dining table were a commonplace necessity. It’s terrifying how quickly it can disappear. 

Sherlock still walked with the posture of someone who had never done a real day’s work in his life, but that was hardly true anymore. 

He entered the store—clothing retailer, cheaply priced shirts and pants that followed all the teen trends but that lasted a week at most before they began falling apart—as a customer would. He relished the few seconds as he made his way from the entryway to the back of the store that he was just like anyone else. It wasn’t until he donned his purple apron, tied three times to fit around his slim waist, and his name badge that read ‘Sherlock H. at your service!’ that he would be distinguishable from the other teens and weary young adults who wandered sleepily through the isles. 

Too quickly, he found himself clocking in to start the shift. He had, back when first starting the job, made an effort to smile at the customers and contort both his face and voice into the sort of high-toned, bright eyed robot that his bosses seemed to inhabit. The facade had quickly lost its charm. Sherlock nowadays couldn’t be bothered to put that much effort into his job; they weren’t going to fire him over it, and he had no real interest in ever being promoted, so for perhaps the first time in his life, Sherlock accepted mediocrity in himself. 

The day went like this: stock the shelves with scratchy jeans and flimsy sweaters. Refold flimsy sweater pile after hoard of teenagers walk through. Sell two pairs of scratchy jeans to middle age woman and her pouting teenager. Clean out the fitting rooms and return items to their correct places with either the flimsy sweaters or scratchy jeans. Tell his boss he’s going on his lunch break, disappear to smoke out beside the trash cans. 

Ah, yes. The most glamorous part of his job was undoubtedly the thirty minutes per day that he spent sitting in the three-slit white plastic chair blowing clouds of tobacco smoke out at the empty back parking lot. Hardly anyone ever bothered him—the mall was unpopular, and even the actual stores and areas where it didn’t smell of trash were often vacant. 

‘Those things’ll kill ya’ he heard his own voice say, and it made him smile cooly, taking a long drag on his cigarette as if out of defiance. Sherlock two years ago had considered smokers the scum of the earth because couldn’t they see just how bad for you the filthy habit was? Sherlock two years ago hadn’t felt the things that Sherlock now had felt. Sometimes, being the scum of the earth was his only retribution. What his parents would say if they could see him now. 

Sherlock ignored his phone alarm when it went off. No one would notice if he took a few extra minutes to finish his smoke. He pocketed his cigarette box and lighter, digging his last piece of gum out of the fold of his apron and setting it onto his tongue. 

He ran through the elements of the periodic table as he refolded the flimsy sweaters. He mentally listed off the main events of Vlad the Impaler's life as he rang a line of colourfully dressed girls through the till. He counted all of the different ways that he could murder his coworkers using only items found in the store as he swept up. By the time he had half an hour left of his shift, Sherlock had resorted to daydreaming, which he considered pitiful and saddening, but which he sometimes permitted anyways when there was truly nothing else to occupy his maddening brain by. 

In this particular day dream, Sherlock was thinking again of the boy from the bus with the short fingers that Sherlock could almost imagine holding in his own. He pictured himself taking the boy back to his old house on the nice street that he surely would have been impressed by, and then playing him a song on his violin, that beautiful, prized instrument that had earned him a pretty penny when sold, but which he missed dearly. 

Clocking out was bitter sweet, because the relief of being done for the day didn’t come without the knowledge that he would have to repeat the whole thing tomorrow. He ducked into the staff washroom before leaving; better to pee here than to step one foot into the public stalls down the hall. 

The yellow light fixture above him reminded him more of something you would see in someone’s house than in a low-end retail store washroom. It was stained glass and had a pretty diamond in the center of it. 

Of course, this wasn’t the first time Sherlock had noticed the light. It also wasn’t the first time he had looked at himself in a mirror, but that caught his eye as well. His dark curls were unruly and nearly covered his eyes, but he couldn’t be bothered to pay what he would make in three hours to get them cut, so he ignored the whole thing. His eyes were framed by dark circles and his pink lips were terribly chapped, probably something to do with the amount, or lack thereof, of water that he drank. Why buy a bottle of water when Redbull is cheaper from the vending machine, and also means that he won’t have to sleep that night? 

And then there was his jacket. The last remembrance of the life he had once lived, his jacket was British made and tailored to fit his every curve, or at least it had been two years ago. If he hadn’t chosen such a plain colour, he wouldn’t be able to get away with wearing it still. Luckily, unless one looked up close, or was incredibly up to date with expensive British Clothing Brands, the jacket looked just the same as one he could have bought from even the store he worked at. God forbid he ever sank to that level. 

The rest of his clothes were purchased from Costco. He didn’t have a membership card, per say, but there were always ways around it. Such included a feigned embarrassed smile and the knowledge of when non confrontational teen girls would be working door duty. 

For dinner, Sherlock lit another cigarette as he walked the route back to the bus stop. The wind had picked up, and he enjoyed the feeling of the bottom of his coat billowing out behind his knees. He passed by a school bus stopping to let out a few uniform-clad teens, weighed down by backpacks no doubt carrying too many textbooks and notebooks. That had been Sherlock once upon a time. Not in the school bus—he had never even known a school bus to drive down the road he had lived on—but a boy keen on learning, messily devouring each new fact and formula, easily committing it all to memory. Researching the top universities, planning ahead to a bright future. 

“You gettin’ on, then?” The gruff voice of the bus driver—the city bus, now huffing and puffing out smog in front of him—called. Sherlock nodded his head and stepped heavily onto the plastic-coated bus flooring. He slid his coins into the machine and lazed his way towards his chosen seat, hardly even bothering to look up before sitting. 

He almost sat in the lap of someone. 

He almost sat in the lap of the boy from the bus that morning.

Not bothered enough to try and play it off as anything cooler, Sherlock side-stepped one seat to the left and sat again, this time successfully into a vacant seat. 

“Hello again,” he said without looking to the boy.

“Hello again. I suppose you worked out exactly where I would be so you could see me again?” 

Sherlock felt the beginning of a blush on his cheeks, and he willed it away. “Nope, just finished work.” He finally dipped his gaze over the boy, focus pausing on his hair, and then his sneakers. “Have fun at the skating rink?” 

“Didn’t, actually. Had a right awful time. How’d you guess that one?”

“Not a guess,” explained Sherlock, “A deduction. Your shoes have been retied recently, but your socks have stayed on, obviously from when you wore the skates. Your hair is flatter than it was this morning, from wearing a helmet.” Sherlock lifted one hand to dust something white and cold off of the boy’s shoulder. “Biggest giveaway, though, is that there’s still ice stuck to your jacket. Had a fall?” 

“A few, yeah.” The boy smiled good-naturedly, and turned his torso towards Sherlock. “John.” He stuck his hand out for a shake. "But perhaps you already knew that.”

“Sherlock.” Sherlock shook the other boy—John’s—hand, but made sure to keep the contact to a minimum. “And I hadn’t deduced that yet, actually.”

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock.” John said. 

Sherlock didn’t know what to say, he had never been good at small talk, so he replied with, “You don’t have many friends, do you?”

John frowned. “I’m not too bad off, actual-”

Sherlock cut him off, suddenly feeling more like his old self than he had in a while, and overwhelmed by it. “I’m only saying that because if you did have a lot of friends already, then you would be able to tell, probably, that I wouldn’t make a very good one. Or perhaps you wouldn’t, I can never quite figure out how much goes on in dull people’s brains.” 

John leaned away from Sherlock, offended, and Sherlock quickly tried to backtrack. “Oh it’s not like that, practically everyone is dull. That’s the better sort of being. Fat lot of good it’s done me being one of the smart ones. And you seem rather interesting for a dull person! You’re not well-to-do, so that’s good. Shows grit. And you’re kind. Bit naive and unconfident, yeah, but that’ll get better with time.” 

“Right. Bye, Sherlock.” John shook his head ever so slightly, in the way that a parent might shake their head while watching their child make the same mistake over and over again. He leaped off the bus when it stopped, and was gone in an instant. 

Twenty minutes alone on a bus. Twenty minutes to reflect back on all of his failures and downfalls that had resulted in this. What good was the tortured genius who wasn’t even smart enough to keep a single friend around? Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and hung his chin down towards his chest. The pads of his fingers made contact with a thin, soft corner-y thing in his pocket that he was certain hadn’t been there before.

Sherlock drew his hand back out of his pocket, taking with it a folded up bit of lined paper. 

His head still ducked down over his chest, Sherlock unfurled the paper ceremoniously, dragging his eyes over the blocky letters. Accompanied by a phone number was a message:

‘Rough day at work? Send me a message when you feel capable of talking without sounding like a complete nutter.’ 

John. Sherlock wasn’t sure how or when, but somehow he had written the note up when Sherlock wasn’t watching, and slipped it in his pocket before leaving. 

Heart lighter than it had been moments ago, Sherlock clutched the scrap of paper against his chest and smiled thinly towards the seats across from him. His phone wouldn’t text without Wi-Fi, and Sherlock found himself wishing with a whole new ferocity that the bus would hurry up and drop him back off at home.

**Author's Note:**

> This little story brought me joy to write, and I hope that it brought you joy to read. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts! Comments are received with much excitement and gratitude.


End file.
